B is for Brothers
by Kitiaria
Summary: NEW IMPROVED PART 3! Good things never last. And while Sam has been almost constantly crying for the past few months, knowing what Dean really thinks has been one of the best experiences he could ever have asked for. But again good things never ever las
1. Part 1

A/N: So hey, I haven't posted here in a while but I just couldn't get this out of my head so I ended up writing this at like 4.25 in the morning. Well, here you go, part 1.

Spoilers up to 2.22 and that's it. Oh, and there's shmoop, lots of it.

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**B is for Brothers**

**Part 1.

* * *

**As with most things in life Sam begins listening to Dean halfway through the conversation. 

"-wouldn't worry about me Sammy." he catches Dean saying, and Sam looks up from his laptop. He'd taken to carrying it everywhere with him nowadays, what with Dean's life depending on Sam figuring a way out of the deal. It was as if Dean's hour glass of life was nailed to the table, sand trickling down, down to oblivion with no way to stop it, no rewind and freeze buttons. He couldn't waste a minute, not when Dean's very existence was threatened.

"Dean," Sam frowns across the table at him, "I'm always going to worry about you, dumb ass." And to his amusement Dean looks utterly bewildered at his response. He was staring at Sam as though he'd just randomly started talking out of the blue.

Dean smiles crookedly, "Next time Sam," he says shaking his head slightly, "I'm getting decaf and cutting you off at two cups." He returns his attention back to his half eaten meal a smile playing around at the corners of his mouth, as if he didn't really want to laugh at his brother, but was fast on his way to doing that exactly. And it was just like Dean to brush off concern and worry for him, especially considering his…how had Dean put it? Circumstances. Yes, considering Dean's circumstances, his lack of self-preservation was astounding.

It appeared to him that the time after their father's death had nothing on Dean's behaviour now after his own deal was made. The constant gambling, drinking, sex, fighting, hunting was tearing Sam to pieces. It wasn't that Sam didn't want Dean to go out, have fun and live life to the fullest - as Dean would put it - he did, he wanted his brother to live how he wanted, enjoy this year, but if - and this was the real problem, and even thinking this made Sam want to shake his brother and punch him and hug him and never let go - _if_ Sam couldn't save Dean, then Sam doesn't want to remember him always drinking, and fighting and spending as little time with Sam as possible, the way his is now. He wants to do the things they never got to do as brothers, like go and see the Grand Canyon, or go to a ranch and ride horses, or rent a cabin up in the mountains somewhere and just spend the last of Dean's time on earth together. As long as they were together.

Sam remembers the first time he begged Dean not to go hunting with their father. He'd pleaded and begged and cried, but Dean had just sat him down on the bed, knelt in front of him, wiped the tears off Sam's cheek with his thumb and said: "It's okay Sammy. It's okay, I'm alright, I'll be back," the last part in that damn terrible Arnold Schwarzenegger accent of his. And it had all been because of one stupid, damn witch hunt going wrong. Dean had nearly died, and Sam had realized that this life wasn't all fun and games as Dean made it out to be. It was dangerous, could take Dean from him. Dean had nearly bled out on the crappy motel bed as their father tried to staunch the blood flow. Dean had been eight.

Sam remembers all the times he'd nearly screamed and cried for hours because he was so scared for Dean. Like on the drive to Nebraska when he thought that the pale imitation of Dean slumped next to him in the car had stopped breathing and he'd nearly crashed the Impala trying to shake Dean awake. Dean had eyed him fuzzily, confused as to why Sam looked as though he was about to burst into tears then said softly, "I'm alright, it's okay," before shifting in his seat and going back to sleep.

Then there was the time when Sam had been kidnapped by a bunch of redneck hillbillies. He'd finally gotten free to go searching for his brother and found Dean bound and slumped in a seat, a horrifying stench of burning flesh in the air, with a child who could have been no older than twelve poking at him with a knife. Then there was the cabin and the demon possessing their father. He still dreams of rivulets of blood pouring down Dean's chest, hoarse screams coming from his throat.

Dean had punched the self destruct button from then on in. After the hospital and the reaper and Dad dying Dean had faded into a spiral of hurt and anger, and hatred for himself, inevitably resulting in the deal he made for Sam's life. He couldn't-

"-Saaaaam? Saaaaaaaaammy? Yo, you with me now?" Dean was snapping his fingers in front of his face, and he looked up from the now closed laptop screen.

"Wha?" He blinks again, coming back to the diner he's sat in, with Dean - safe goddamit - across the plastic table, head resting on his closed fists, elbows on the table.

"How eloquent," Dean smiles, nudging Sam's boot with his own before stretching and continuing, "Spaced out on me dude," Sam looks down and Dean continued, "You're freaking me out Sam." He looks up into Dean's eyes, seeing badly concealed concern and worry and he presses his lips into an apologetic grimace.

"Sorry," he sighs, "I didn't mean to worry you." And there was that look again, and Sam could only explain it in terms of pure confusion. He watches as Dean shifts slightly under the scrutiny and says, "Right," he stands up suddenly, "right. Come on then Sam-I-am, places to go, people to save and all that shit. You mind getting this one? Thanks, you're a great brother. So you wanna pay the nice waitress and leave a good tip wont you?" And like Dean, he manages to get that out in one breath, so quickly that Sam barely has time to manage a fond "Jerk," pulling out the cash from his wallet.

"Bitch," Dean calls back over his shoulder, and then walks out the door.

* * *

It continues for a week after the incident in the diner, and it's only then that Sam realizes it, somewhat belatedly. It takes a full week of sidelong glances at Sam, confused stares after he says something, and a general feeling of awkwardness between the two of them, and it shows in their hunting. They're so off key with each other that Sam ends up jumping out too soon on the wendigo they're attempting to trap in the forest clearing using Dean as bait who, for his troubles gets clawed up his side.

Dean's face is pale when Sam kills it. And he murmurs a litany of "I'm alright, it's okay," under his breath as Sam heaves him upright practically dragging Dean back to the impala.

"S'okay Sammy," he blinks at Sam as he skids into the motel parking lot. "It's only a few scratches."

"Shut up Dean," he growls, "Just shut up. God you've probably got a concussion, here take these pain pills," To his surprise, Dean does, rather meekly and he feels like a bastard for shouting at his hurting brother. "Sorry," He mumbles.

* * *

It's when they're inside that Sam realizes it. Realizes what's been going on this past week and he's so shocked that his hand stops mid stitch. It all made sense now; the confused looks, sidelong, unsure glances, everything. 

His first thought was _wow_.

His second was **_oh_** **_shit_**.

Dean mumbles something about his crappy medical skills and Sam shakes his head, picking up the needle that was laying against Dean's bare side and continues stitching up the gashes on his ribs. Dean had been right. They hadn't been that bad.

"All done," He says smiling at Dean and patting him on the chest before getting up off the bed and making his way to the other pulling off his jeans and t-shirt on the way. He couldn't think about what he'd discovered just yet. He was too tired, his thoughts muggy and slow, it was no use worrying about it when he could barely think.

It's 3.25 AM and he's just settling down under the covers when an annoyed: "Hey," pierces his thoughts. He glances at Dean who looks thoroughly disgruntled, currently pushing himself up on his elbows.

"What?" Sam rubs his eyes; he's tired and just wants to sleep.

"You're in my bed!" Dean retorts indignantly, "That's my bed!" He's pointing now and oh god Dean's trying to get up.

"Dean," Sam grumbles exasperatedly, "We've never been to this motel before so technically this is _my _bed. Now goodnight." He turns over pulling the covers up over his shoulders.

"No, that's always my bed! I always have the bed by the door!" He tumbles out of the bed and pokes at Sam's shoulder. "Gimme my bed back!"

"Naargh," Sam grumbles back and, when the poking doesn't stop he sits up, glaring at Dean, who is currently pouting magnificently. "Why do you insist on having this bed? Huh? Got any real reason except for wanting to annoy the hell out of me as usual? Well Dean? You just being that goddamn stubborn son of a-"

"I just want my bed," He mumbles pitifully looking at his feet, and oh god there was the voice. The sad little sniffly voice that meant if he looked up, he'd see those eyes all full of tears and shiny, and whoever said Dean couldn't pull the puppy face was talking complete bullshit. And oh fuck, he went and looked up didn't he? And his eyes were shining, and his bottom lip was wobbling like he thought it would and Dean looks hurt, brow creased in between his eyebrows with distress. And now he feels like a damn bastard because Dean's shuffling back to the other bed dejectedly, feet trailing slow and long on the grubby carpet.

Sam sighs. "Come on then," He says softly, pulling himself out of the warm confines of the bed.

"No," Dean sniffles back still turned. And damn, he'd really underestimated the effects of that concussion because now Dean was sulking, pouting like an unloved child and it made him want to wrap his arms around him and hug Dean.

"Come on Dean," He wheedles, "It's all warm and cozy. Come on, you know you want the bed by the door."

There's a moment of silence before Dean sniffles again, nods unhappily and drags his feet on the way to the bed. He doesn't look at Sam as he passes him. Doesn't look at Sam when he tucks Dean in or pats him on the head fondly. But Sam smiles softly.

"There you go big brother," And makes his way to Dean's unwanted bed.

He's settling into the musty blankets on the bed looking at Dean's face, the only part of him visible from under the mass of blankets when it happens again. Dean has always had this ability to rip your heart out of your chest, stamp on it, then shove it back down your throat just from a look you catch when he thinks you're not watching him. Or when he makes a little comment when drugged up, or feverish, or concussed that makes Sam want to curl up beside him in bed and never let go. He hears Dean's voice soft in his head as Dean thinks: _I just want to keep you safe from the things outside that might want to hurt you Sammy. _

And right there and then Sam feels like a bastard.

TBC


	2. Part 2

**A/N: Hello again! After people liked the start of this fic I thought I'd get right back in there with the next part. So, here you go!**

**A/N2: THIS IS A NEW VERSION OF PART 2, JUST A FEW EXTRA BITS HAVE BEEN ADDED IN SO HERE YOU GO.

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**

**B is for Brothers**

**Part 2.

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**

_I just want to keep you safe from the things outside that might want to hurt you Sammy. _Sam hears Dean say in his head, and the whole _**lets-not-think-about-the-fact-that-I-can-hear-Dean's-thoughts**_ thing was going really, _really _bad right now. He wants to think that this isn't possible, but it is, it really, really _is_ possible and that is what makes Sam even more afraid of what he can do. And it feels wrong to be listening to Dean's thoughts, worse even because he doesn't know _when _he's going to hear him think. But part of him is happy that he can know what his brother is really thinking, considering how little Dean talks to him nowadays. And with that wonderful thought Sam shudders, turning over and closing his eyes to sleep.

* * *

Sam jolts awake an hour later. It took him a moment to realise that the growling he thought was Hellhounds was actually coming from his brother. He gave himself a moment to be relieved, and then, running his hands through his hair, he stumbled over to Dean's bed - the one by the door goddamnit - only to realise that the lump he thought was his brother, was in fact blankets and a pillow. 

There was a moment of terrible silence, in which he wondered thickly whether Dean might have lied about how long he had left to live. He wondered whether the growling actually _had _been the Hellhounds, and felt physically sick. But then, as he was about to crumple to the floor in tears, he heard it again, growling, thick and pained.

He cocked his head, listening. It was deep, rough, gritty. There was no other way to explain it, it sounded painful. His head shot up sharply to the bathroom door and he was striding across the room purposefully, hand outstretched for the handle, before his brain had time to process anything.

It was locked.

He had a instant to wonder why it was locked before he was hammering down on the wood, then kicking it in when there was no answer. All the while he was screaming in his head a mantra of _please be all right Dean, please, please, please be all right,_ getting louder and more desperate with each passing second. Then the splintered door dropped to the floor, and he peered into the gloom.

It was still dark outside, and Dean hadn't turned on the light. Sam scanned the dark room, feeling for the light switch. When the light flicked on and then abruptly off with a high pitched _ping_, he only got one real look in the grubby, cockroach infested bathroom.

It was just a second, less, but it was enough to rattle Sam, enough to seriously undermine his image of his big brother, the protector, the saviour, his defender, invincible, indestructible. New images dropped into deep places in Sam's chest, each with a dull heavy thud of Sam's heart.

_THUMP THUMP_

_Breakable_

_THUMP THUMP_

_Only human_

_THUMP THUMP_

_Dying_

_THUMP THUMP_

_Hurting_

_THUMP THUMP_

_Vulnerable_

_THUMP THUMP_

It was something Sam never wanted to see again.

Dean was hunched over in the bathtub muttering about something, something Sam couldn't quite make out, which was scary, but his brother was still here, still breathing, still _alive_, and that was what mattered. Sam moved quietly, slowly so as not to alarm him, gripping Dean's arms and pulling him upright, all the while making soothing sounds, giving quiet reassurances to his practically comatose older brother.

"Come on, come on Dean, lets get you back to bed, OK?"

Sam started to lead him out of the bathroom, but then Dean's legs buckled and suddenly Sam was hauling him into his arms, moving quickly to get him onto the bed because damnit Dean was heavy. _It's_ _all_ _muscle_, Dean would have said, and the thought made Sam smile before turning back to the bathroom for a wet towel to place on his brother's sweating brow. He lifted the hem of Dean's shirt, Sam wished he'd checked Dean for injuries, wished that he'd been stubborn, dug his heels in and said, hell no Dean I am checking you're wounds and that's that, regardless of how 'bad' they are. The wounds were hot and red, weeping a pale fluid and Sam sighed. Infected.

"Alright. Okay. It's gonna be okay, Dean." **Love it.**

Sam pulled a chair towards Dean's bed and sat down with a thud.

Dean mumbled things Sam couldn't hear, was guiltily thankful he couldn't hear. Sam remembered the time Dean had got sick after that time in the asylum, after he'd shot Dean full of rock-salt and tried to kill him. He'd expected Dean to have nightmares, had waited up so he could tell Dean that he was sorry, that he didn't hate him, how could he, Sam loved Dean, they were brothers after all. But Dean hadn't stirred until the phone rang the next morning, and while Sam had been happy Dean hadn't had any nightmares, he'd also been disappointed that he'd never really got to say what he wanted to.

It had been worse after Sam had been possessed. Dean had driven, straight-backed and tight-jawed, until he'd just about fallen asleep at the wheel of the Impala, eyes tired, face bruised, and Sam had had to force Dean to stop driving before they were both killed on the road. When they'd checked into their motel, he had gone straight to bed, ignoring all of Sam's attempts to check his wounds, simply biting off, "Just leave me alone Sam," in that harsh unyielding voice of his that he only used when angry…or hurt. And like the stupid, _stupid_ idiot that Sam was, he had relented, let Dean sleep and the next morning when Sam had woken up late, expecting the shower to be running, coffee to be on the table, he'd found Dean unconscious on the bed.

The gunshot wound had got infected, and Sam had spent a grand total of three days at Dean's bedside trying to keep the fever down, ignoring everything Dean said with fever fuelled rage. All the things Sam feared, all the things that he feared Dean thought had come spilling out: _You hate me don't you? I knew it. _And, _Please don't hurt me Sammy, don't hurt me anymore. _Sam had spent those three days in tears.

Sam blinks and shakes his head returning to the motel room. He looks at Dean whose cheeks are pink and flushed from the fever. It rages for five and a quarter hours, but thankfully the claw wounds from the wendigo get better, skin tender and pink around the stitches, no pale liquid seeping out much to Sam's relief, and when Dean woke up the next day, finding Sam slumped half-asleep in the rickety chair next to his bed, he grinned tiredly, and said, "You're not a hot blonde, but you'll have to do I suppose."

Sam snorted.

* * *

Hearing Dean's thoughts didn't happen again for about three weeks, which gave Sam time enough to wonder whether _it _had actually happened at all,but this time Dean was drunk, an arm slung around Sam's shoulder, laughing loud and long like he hadn't for months. So he didn't really mind when Dean sucker punched him this time. 

It happened when he was debating whether he should let Dean have those tequila shots he was asking for, considering how much he'd already had to drink, because Dean was barely upright, trying to drink from two bottles of beer at the same time,spilling it spectacularly down his t-shirt and finding it incredibly amusing how the 'bubbles tickle my nose'. Yes, Dean had drunk far too much, that is healthy for a person.

Out of nowhere _it_ stopped Sam dead again. The world seemed to freeze. The bar quietened, the clamour and racket hushed, and people seemed to move slower. He turned his head to look at Dean, who had beer dribbling in slow-motion down his chin, and Sam brought his arms up to rest on the sticky table. It felt like he was pulling them through mud. This was different, much different from the first time he heard Dean's thoughts. So what was different this time?

_I hope you're alright after I'm gone Sammy, _he heard Dean think as he looked at Sam with calm eyes, too calm considering how much alcohol he'd consumed in the past half hour. _I hope you get the life you've always wanted. I hope you're okay after this year…_

Yep. Sucker punch to the gut all right.

Then, as soon as it had started, the quiet and sluggish movements that had come across him and the people around him stopped, and the world blurred past him for a moment, noise almost deafening. When he searched for Dean he found him looking away, head bent backwards as if the ceiling was so very, very important.

"You know what Saaaaaaammy?" Dean slurs, and Sam blinks, suddenly realising that now Dean's addressing him, a finger pointed drunkenly in his general direction…okay over his shoulder, but Dean's plastered and looking at the ceiling so what did he expect?

"What?" he asks thickly, heart still pounding loudly in his ears from what Dean had just revealed, albeit unconsciously, to him.

"You needa get laaaaid man." Dean sat forward, eyes bright with mischief, smiling again, and Sam couldn't help but smile back.

"No thanks dude, I'm all right with your sorry ass for company." Dean laughed at that, snorting into his bottle of beer, almost choking as he inhaled it.

"We need tuuuh-" he hiccuped drunkenly, "we need…we really, _really_ need to…hunh…wait…whazza saying?" Sam laughed, unnaturally high-pitched, and took a moment to consider whether he was drunk too.

It was more than likely.

* * *

He'd got used to it. This, listening to Dean's thoughts. 

Sometimes it was harder to distinguish between thoughts and actual speech, and on more than one occasion he'd answered a question that Dean had only _thought, _which generally resulted in a 'what the hell, are you high?' kind of expression. He kind of wondered sometime whether he was high, or hallucinating, or mad, or having a very, _very_ vivid dream. He preferred the idea that he was listening to Dean's thoughts, but if he had to go with another option, he'd go for mad every time, especially considering how much time he'd spent almost in hysterics because of one of Dean's wittier thoughts. Half the time Sam thought his brother wasn't actually intending to be funny, and that generally made him want to laugh more.

More often than not, he'd hear Dean think little, stupid, inconsequential things, about how outstandingly horrifying their current motel room was, or how hot the waitress in this town was, or how he wanted a burger and onion rings for lunch and not some girlie salad like Sam - bastard - usually tried to get him to eat, something like that. But every now and then he'd hear something special, something meaningful, something that made Sam really realise how extraordinary Dean was. It was always a rare and special thing when Sam heard something that came from Dean's heart. And Sam clung to them.

From Dean's heart, Sam had heard how much Dean loved him, how lucky he was to have this chance to spend this year with him, how he was glad he didn't have to see him leave for school again, how much he missed their father, how the smell of homemade cookies and sunflowers reminded him of their mother. These thoughts were sucker punches, every one of them. They were the thoughts that left Sam breathing harshly, heart hammering painfully in his chest, eyes burning, a complete and utter mess.

Having this new power was starting to take its toll. Having to lie to Dean about why he suddenly looked like he wanted to burst into tears every few minutes was getting to be rather difficult. Dean hadn't believed his first excuse of "Uh, there's something in my eyes," had shot back "Yeah, and I'm the Queen of Sheba and ruler of the world, bow down to me," eyebrows quirked, mouth turned down at the corners as he focussed on Sam more than the road.

It was what Dean had _thought _after Sam's most recent bullshit excuse that really set Sam off though. Had really made Sam feel like the worst person in the world, a terrible brother, unloving and hateful. Dean's voice had spoken in his head with that hushed, sad, hurt voice that mumbled and quieted out the hum of the Impala, _Why won't you talk to me anymore? _It was things like that, that made Sam want to cry forever.

* * *

-TBC-

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	3. Part 3

**A/N: Yo take another look people this is the new and updated version!!!**

**

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****B is for Brothers**

**Part 3.**

**Last time: **Dean's voice had spoken in his head with that hushed, sad, hurt voice that mumbled and quieted out the hum of the Impala, _why won't you talk to me anymore? _It was things like that, which made Sam want to cry forever.

* * *

Good things never last. And while Sam has been almost constantly crying for the past few months, knowing what Dean really thinks has been one of the best experiences he could ever have asked for. But again, good things never, ever last. He should have realised that from the beginning.

It's like in films, the person who spies or snoops through other people's stuff always gets found out. Or almost always, something bad will happen to them because of it. That's why Sam'ssitting in an empty motel room, staring at his phone waiting for his brother to come back.

It's been a day, and there's been no sign of Dean. No phone calls, no texts, no voicemails, nothing. And Sam is starting to think that this new power is some kind of curse that's been put on him. It's not really his fault, anyway. After all, can mind reading really be classed as invading privacy when he can't actually control when he's doing it? It's not his fault he's reading Dean's mind at random intervals, it's not like he asked for this power. And while he's loved being able to hear Dean's thoughts he hates it more than his damn visions. It doesn't hurt, not in a physical sense, but on an emotional and mental level, having to listen to Dean's thoughts to get to know his own brother stings and aches more than any bullet or knife could. And Sam wishes it would stop, as much as he loves and hates it.

Sam's been so angry the past month, spending most of his time snapping at Dean, who'll turn those sad, confused eyes away to look at his feet, or out the window before exiting hastily. And this makes Sam even more angry -at himself, at his powers-because it's not Dean's fault he's like this, not at all. He's the only innocent party in it all. Sam's the one who's been invading his privacy. So he's been talking less, eating less, sleeping less, and it's not helping, just making Dean edgy, more worried, so much that Dean's started sitting Sam down and forcing him to eat food that's been drugged with sleeping tablets. And Sam's anger increases and he figures if he doesn't do something soon, he's going to explode in Dean's face and say something he will most definitely regret.

It's been happening at the most inappropriate moments, and Dean always seems to be thinking the most inappropriate things at those times. This generally results in Sam getting into the worst kind of trouble--like the trouble he's in now.

They'd been at a diner, and a pretty waitress had come up to offer them more coffee, and all Sam could hear in his head was, "Damn I'd just like to back her up against a wall and-". Yeah, he didn't need to relive _that _particular thought. Needless to say Sam had choked on his coffee, spluttering loudly, before falling into a coughing fit, earning not one, but two astonished and disgusted stares. After the woman had left, her mouth a thin, hard line, Dean had turned to Sam, and slapped him upside the head.

"Dammit Sam, I could've gotten me some of that!" Dean had glared at Sam before staring forlornly after the waitress.

"Yeah." Sam had coughed and wheezed, eyes watering, and the lack of oxygen must have cut off that filter in his brain that stopped stupid comments popping out of his mouth. "Unfortunately I know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean's head had whipped back around to glare at him again, and he'd leant across the table, eyes hard.

Sam had gulped, and suddenly he couldn't take it anymore. He was so full of anger and s then thought, what the hell, if he was going to be killed, why not go out in a blaze of blood and gore because it was more than likely that Dean would murder him whatever he might say.

"You always want to have sex with the waitresses Dean, and you always do. You have sex with all the girls you can find, any age, any size, wherever we are, it doesn't matter if we're in hospital or at a diner." He snorts, "I'd be more worried if you didn't want to have them."

Sam had scoffed, leaning back in his chair, ignoring that little voice that was telling him to _shut up, shut up, for Christ sake just shut the hell up right now and we won't die!_ _He's going to murder us for fucks sake shut up! _But no, like the idiot that Sam was in that moment, he blundered on, "For god's sake you've probably got a whole load of mini Dean and Deanette's running around out there wreaking havoc on the world" And what had Sam said about blowing up in Dean's face? Well yeah, it kinda just happened in a public place. And not only had it resulted in insulting his brother's morals, possible children and fathering abilities but Sam knows in his deepest most soul that at the moment, with Dean's expiration date looming so close, that had really, really been the worst possible thing he could have said to his brother, because Dean had lost his family, more than once. What with their Dad and their Mom's deaths, and Sam's at that, saying that Dean could have children that have no father because of Dean's carelessness was the most insensitive thing to say. Because that would mean that Dean had left broken families behind him, broken families that he, himself had caused. Dean had once said that he wanted a legacy to leave behind, not just a car, and Sam had just thrown that wish back in his brother's face.

And oh boy, Sam hates that he's always right.

The silence had been deafening.

Dean's eyes had flicked away from Sam's face, his mouth had curled downwards at the corners, his jaw had clenched in anger, knuckles white from where he was grabbing the sticky plastic table. Then Dean had growled quietly across the table, eyes still down, "Fuck. You."

And then Dean had got up and left, leaving a rather stunned Sam sitting at the table. Sam had shaken his head suddenly, thrown down enough money to cover their breakfast and run out, chasing his brother.

"Dean! Wait man, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that!"

Dean had stopped walking but his back had still been turned.

"Don't lie," he'd said, his voice low and dark and devoid of any emotion. "Don't you lie to me." He carries on walking, heavy, jerky, angry strides away from Sam before he stops and swings around, his eyes unemotional and blank. "You know, I'm glad this is all coming out now, so I know what you really think of me before I go and die for you." He pauses, head tilted back, not looking at Sam, "You think I'm a no good whore who doesn't care whether I get anyone pregnant. You think I'm the kinda guy who would throw a wad of money at a girl and say get rid of it. Don't you come near me right now, or so help me god I don't know what I'm gonna do," Dean bites out as Sam attempts to move closer. There's silence for a moment. The breeze is warm and soft against Sam's skin and the ground rumbles with passing traffic and then Dean turns around, walking away again.

"Dean no, I don't think that!" Sam had stopped behind him, grabbed his arm and tugged. "Come on Dean, look at me man," and when Dean had turned Sam expected the fist that met his jaw, sending him sprawling, and let Dean punch him.

"Fuck off," Dean had said, leaving Sam, nose bleeding, lying on the muddy ground. Head reeling, Sam had attempted to get up, to follow his brother, because goddamit, he hadn't meant that, not a word. He didn't think Dean was a whore, and he wanted to tell his brother this, needed to, but the world was fuzzy and he couldn't stand upright without holding onto the nearby wall. He had been angry at himself and his powers, and that he'd been keeping them secret from Dean.

It was only when his vision cleared that Sam realised he had the keys to the Impala, and his brother couldn't have gotten that far on foot, so with renewed hope Sam had pulled himself to the Impala, and begun scouring the streets. Searching, searching for Dean, for a flash of familiar dirty blonde hair, looking for that leather jacket he always wears, for hazel eyes amongst a crowd.

Sam shakes his head, bringing himself back to the motel room. It's no use, Dean's gone. He's searched all the bars, all the different motels in case Dean had checked in under a different alias but there's nothing. It's like Dean has just up and disappeared. And now, in this crappy motel room that smells vaguely like feet, Sam begins to worry that something might have his brother.

Dean can't die, not now, not after all this time. Yeah, okay, Sam knows Dean only has a year to live, but he's working on that, is close to a breakthrough and if Dean dies now, Sam doesn't know what he'll do. And maybe he's overreacting. Maybe Dean is just really, really, _really _mad because of what Sam said, hell Sam knows that if someone had said that to him, he'd have punched them too.

He sighs, running a hand over his weary face, before trying Dean's cell once more. When it goes to voice mail Sam barely restrains himself from flinging the little black box across the room. How could he have said that to Dean? Dean is great with kids, hell, he practically raised Sam himself. Dean was the best father Sam could have ever hoped for, was his constant, always there when he was scared of the monster under his bed. How do you repay someone for that? How do you repay someone for being the only one who cared? Especially when it must seem that you don't care about them.

"Shit," Sam murmurs, "shit, shit, _shit._" He stands up, moving over to the window again to peer out into the empty parking lot. It's summer so it wouldn't get dark until about 10pm, but there is still no sign of Dean.

"The hell with this." Sam stands up, keys to the Impala in hand and steps over to the door. He'll find his brother, whether Dean wants to be found or not.

His hand is reaching for the doorknob when it turns, and Sam jumps back in shock. The door swings inward to reveal a very tired and unhappy Dean. Sam sighs in relief.

Dean's back.

"Dean," Sam breathes, eyes filling with tears, "Where have you been? I've been so worried man, I thought-"

"Whatever Sam. I'm gonna take a shower." Dean shoulders past Sam and into the bathroom. The door closes with a firm click, and the sound of the lock turning seemingly shatters Sam into a million little pieces.

Sam moves dumbly towards the bed again, sits down with a thump and prays that Dean will forgive him. It takes him a moment to realise that the shower isn't running, and guilt floods through him. Dean's avoiding him. Hiding from him, and in the bathroom. That means something. Not only because, yes, Sam's seen the state of shower and toilet and the colour of the water coming from the taps in that room, and it's a major feat that Dean's even managed to stay in there for a few seconds. But it also means that Dean is genuinely upset, is really hurt and hasn't, maybe won't forgive Sam for what he said. So Sam can't let this go on, he'll talk to Dean, explain about the mind reading, explain that it's not really his fault, that he didn't mean a word of what he had said to Dean in that diner. Dean raised him, how could he think Dean's a bad father?

"Dean." Sam knocks on the door, then again when Dean doesn't answer, and all Sam can think of is that time with the wendigo and that fever. The way Dean's eyes had looked at him, so fearful. "Man, if you don't open the door I'm breaking it down."

The threat hangs in the silence, then after a long, dragging moment, there is a muffled click as the door is unlocked.

Dean's sitting on the rim of the bath, head in hands. Sam steps into the small room, closing the door behind him, before flipping the lid of the toilet down and sitting on it. He expects to hear Dean's voice in his head, because can anyone say karma? But there is just silence. Sam wishes for once that he did know what Dean was thinking, even if it means Sam realising how terrible a brother he is.

"I need to tell you something Dean," he starts slowly, voice low and soothing. "It's about my powers…I--"

Dean cuts him off with a quiet snort. "I wondered when you were gonna tell me about the mind reading, Sammy."

"I can read -- wait, what? You--What? How in the hell-" He stops there because he was about to say, why. Why didn't you tell me you knew! And that would be more than a little hypocritical.

Dean smiles faintly, mouth turning upwards as he says softly, "It wasn't that hard to work out, especially when you--" He stops, breaking off that shocked look on his face like Dean knows he's said too much.

"What?" Sam wheedles, voice still quiet and low, "Dean, how did you know?"

Dean sighs, shoulders slumping slightly, before saying, "You talk in your sleep Sammy."

Sam isn't sure how to respond to that. Except? "Since when?" he says utterly perplexed, because hell Sam only talks in his sleep when he's drank too much tequila.

"'Bout one, maybe two months ago. I thought it was nothing at first, but then when I started drugging your food with sleeping pills it kinda made you have a loose tongue at night," Dean looks at his hands, twisting the silver ring on his right hand. "S'alright, don't worry about it. Figured you'd tell me in your own time, so I didn't say anything, didn't want to push."

There is a beat of silence and it drags until minutes pass. So, when Sam speaks again, his ass has gone numb and he's fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

"Dean." Sam clenches his fists tight on his knees and forces the rest out through gritted teeth. "I didn't mean it, I swear. I don't think you're a terrible father, you raised me after all and, well okay I suppose, at the moment, with how I've been acting, that isn't really in--" Dean stops him with a breathy laugh.

"Don't hurt yourself." Sam looks up, eyebrows furrowed, bottom lip trembling and eyes filling with tears. He bites his lip as he looks at Dean worry and guilt pouring off him in waves, "It's okay Sam. Really. I know you didn't mean it. I over-reacted…sorry 'bout the punch,"

"No, Dean no! You didn't over-react, you had every right to punch me, take another swing at me, hell knows I deserve it! I'm so sorry Dean, really I am, please believe me, I never meant any of that."

"I know Sammy, it's okay." But Dean's eyes still look a little hurt, so Sam can't resist. He wraps his arms around Dean, ignoring his brother's protests, and doesn't let go, comforted at the steady beat of Dean's heart under his ear, the gentle heat from his torso, and Sam can bearly contain his tears.

It's a while before Sam lets go of Dean, and he does release Dean from his bear hug because Dean had said "Come on Sammy, I know okay, I know you didn't mean it,"and he sighs with relief because his voice had been genuine, and he smiles when Dean nudges Sam's foot with his boot playfully, as if saying, what were you so worried about?

"Come on, my ass is dead, this bathroom smells like someone's just died in it and I want beer godammit." And Dean stands up vacating the dingy bathroom eyes sparkling and grin not quite repressed.

It's only afterwards in the bar that Sam realises that Dean hadn't been speaking.

* * *

"I've got it," Sam says to himself rather stunned. "I've done it!"

He sits and thinks for a while. It would be risky, and Dean could die but if it worked? Then Dean would be free from the deal and live. It's so painstakingly obvious that he can't believe he didn't think of it sooner. But the risks are still there, and it would hurt. A lot. But Dean would live, that's the main point. He still can't believe he's worked it out. So he jumps up from the bed and grins, poking at his brother excitedly whispering a litany of Dean, Deeeean, Deeeeeeeeeaaan!!!

"Nuh," is the only response he gets before a hand swipes at him, pillow soon following. He gets thwacked in the face with the not-so-white-pillow and it thuds to the floor and really, the only plausible response to that, is to jump on Dean's bed and bounce like an excited child on Christmas day.

"Nargh," Dean says again, swiping for his brother before blinking his eyes open blearily. "What has got you in such a fine mood that you had to wake me up at-" he blinks at the bedside clock blearily, "5.45 _**am**_ Sam?"

"I know how to get you out of your deal!" Dean sits up sending his brother sprawling onto the floor, but Sam grins happily, still bouncing. "You haven't only got a year now!"

"Sam," Dean begins slowly. "I thought we'd been through this. I wasn't going to throw myself at random monsters -it's not like I do it anyway- and you weren't going to worry about my deal." Sam hears what Dean is really thinking over the rant: _You sure about this Sammy? It might not work, you could die again._

"It will Dean, it's real, legit." And Dean gives a small smile, nods his head and thinks, _Okay Sammy. Okay then. _And it's all going swimmingly until Dean asks the question. The one he's been dreading.

"What does it entail precisely?" Dean asks, stretched out on his bed, hands tucked under his head, and feet crossed at the ankle. When Sam doesn't reply he looks at him, eyes curious and sighs, "That bad huh?"

"Um, yeah," Sam sighs.

"Go on, gimme the bad news, I can take it!" Dean smiles sitting forwards ready to take on whatever crazy idea Sam has.

"It's got its risks, and you won't like it one bit but…it _will _work Dean, it will." Sam doesn't even need to look at Dean to know he's rolling his eyes, the familiar gesture saying, just tell me Sam, I can take it. But Sam is silent, excitement draining out of him as he considers what must be done to save his brother. He stands up, walks over to the window and peers out. It's dark outside and the neon red sign makes it look as if the parking lot is full of blood.

"Just listen to me Dean, don't over-react and think about it logically...I have to kill you,"

-TBC-

* * *


End file.
